


Three Battlefields

by misura



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Brief Titus Abarasax, M/M, Mission Fic, Pre-Canon, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "Industrial sabotage," Stinger mutters, checking and rechecking his weapons. "Bloody hate industrial sabotage." (or: two times Stinger and Caine were on Legion business and one time Caine was on his own)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MotherHulda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherHulda/gifts).



_I should like to discuss with you a matter of mutual profit,_ is what the sheave from Titus said (not _Lord_ Titus, never that; the only ranks members of the Legion acknoweldge are those of the Royals - and, of course, their own) and Caine doesn't need Stinger standing by his shoulder to translate that sentence for what it really says. Not this time.

_It would be my most profound pleasure to screw you over. How about it?_

Stinger would have told him not to come, to just turn tail and run. Do the smart thing.

Stinger, alas, is no longer his commanding officer.

*

"Industrial sabotage," Stinger mutters, checking and rechecking his weapons. "Bloody hate industrial sabotage."

"As opposed to what? Peace time? Patrol duty?"

"Don't get cheeky with me just because you're not dead yet, Wise."

The Legion has no official religion any more than the rest of the civilized Verse does, but a very few of them like the idea of dead friends sticking around to keep an eye on goings-on.

Audreia Treglan carries around one of her grandmother's old ladles, swearing up and down that the thing's saved her life more than once. Stinger's official stance is that he doesn't have one, and Caine figures that's good enough for him.

If Caine has any ancestors, he doubts they're going to be sticking around for a runt like him anyway.

Stinger, finally content with the state of his weaponry, turns his full attention to Caine. "All read up on the Protocols, then? No urge for last-minute check-ins? Remember, we're not allowed to bring any sheaves down with us. Not that any of these people'd have the first idea how to read them. More likely to try to eat them, or put them on some altar as a holy relic. Still, better safe than sorry."

Caine shrugs. "Winged messengers, religious figures, sin eaters. Seems pretty standard."

"Yeah." Stinger sighs. "Poor bastards always come up with the same stuff, don't they? Though I'll grant you, the non-violence thing's new. Quite sneaky, that one - wonder which of them came up with it. Waste of good Legionnaires, you ask me. Someone should sue."

"Hey, you fill out the first hundred forms, I'll carry them for you."

"We go hand-to-hand, I can have you flat on your back in fifty ticks."

It's a warning more than a promise, Caine tells his body - it's Stinger, telling him to be careful, walking the line between friendly ribbing and insubordination. It's not an _offer_.

"Less, if you keep getting so easily distracted," Stinger adds, his expression indicating he knows exactly what Caine is thinking of. "Then again, you could use the work-out."

That's an offer, all right.

"Fifty ticks, was it?" Caine asks, rising.

Stinger sweeps his legs right from under him. It's a dirty move, really; the ceiling's too low here for either of them to use their wings.

"Closer to five, I think. If even that."

*

"Lord Titus will be with you momentarily," Famulus says, smelling of prey and poison. The poison might be her own, or it might come from the refreshments Caine has no intention of touching anyway. They look pretty, rather than tasty, arranged around a bouquet.

Caine has never quite figured out what type of splice Famulus is. He feels her ears should make it obvious, but they don't. Her behavior registers as that of prey, but there's always an undercurrent of something else, too, of something pretending to be less than it is.

"Thanks," he says, and she smiles a fake smile.

Caine wonders if Titus has had her genomgineered for loyalty. It seems probable.

*

"Bloody pollen."

Every once in a while, an unseeded planet has managed to develop a bio-system sufficiently unique for it to have been labeled as Reserved.

Reserved planets don't get terraformed, or seeded, or harvested. They do get observed, very carefully, and visited, by a select few, and every once in a while, to prevent overpopulation, they get pruned.

To own a Reserved planet is an honor. They're status symbols, and as such, popular with the upper crust to involve in their little games.

"I thought you liked flowers." Caine's nose has more or less shut down in protest ten ticks after landing.

"Everything in moderation," Stinger says, looking around him in disgust. "Besides, these aren't the right kind of flowers. They smell wrong. No self-respecting bee would bother with them - probably poison the whole hive, if not worse."

Caine takes a wary sniff, trying to get his nose to come out and play a little. He can function perfectly well without its use, but it's like putting on a blindfold, or binding his wings: no big deal, provided it's only temporarily, yet potentially crippling, if it isn't.

"No bees - hell, no butterflies or even wasps, either. No point in them, really. Too small to cover the distance between the enclaves. They'd drop out of the sky halfway from sheer exhaustion."

"So the good news is: no mosquitoes."

Stinger chuckles. "Still sore about that, are you? Well, fair enough. You had us all worried for a few days. Bloody bad timing, too."

Sick Lycantants seek out their pack - either to die in a safe place, or to get better. Caine is packless; _he's_ spent five days holed up in Stinger's cabin, curled up in Stinger's bed, wearing one of Stinger's old shirts. He's been told that he nearly bit someone's hand of for trying to retrieve an empty water bottle.

Caine doesn't remember the incident at all. He remembers feeling really, really bad, and feeling a little bit better when Stinger crawled into bed right beside him. He's not sure if that was after or before the water bottle incident. He's not sure if it matters.

Pack or not, Stinger knows that Caine would never try to bite him.

"Next time I decide to almost die, I'll be sure to check your schedule first to make sure it's convenient."

"You do that." Stinger sneezes. "Bloody hell. I think I'm going to need nose plugs."

Caine doesn't know a lot about bees. He does know a lot about Stinger, though, and he's not very happy with what he's seeing right now. (Smelling would be better, surer. There's nuances to smell that aren't there with sight.) "Nose plugs sound like a good idea," he says.

" 'course they do. Was mine, wasn't it?" Stinger shakes his head slowly, like he's trying to shake something off. "Caine. I don't feel so good."

Caine's nose clears for just a moment - long enough to agree with Stinger's assessment that there's something not quite right about these flowers, and to realize that Stinger's understating his situation a bit, as usual. He takes another sniff, looking for more, trying to pin down the exact smell that's making Stinger slur his words and look like he might fall over at any moment.

The nose plugs, he realizes, too late, really _were_ a good idea.

*

"Admiring the flowers?" Titus sounds smug, self-satisfied. "In certain circles, they're quite the rage."

Caine backs away slowly. It's a show of weakness, in a way, but it's preferable over the alternative.

Of the many, many bad places to lose control, 'in the company of Titus Abrasax' must surely rank somewhere in the top-8. Caine's memories of what happened with Stinger are vague, fragmented.

Not all bad, admittedly, but that doesn't mean Caine wants to repeat the experience with Titus.

"Some sort of sex pollen, right? I thought it was illegal to harvest anything from Reserved planets."

Titus smiles a smug, self-satisfied smile. "For those with money, there are always ways around such small things as laws. I do admit, I wasn't quite sure if you would accept my invitation."

"Why not?" Caine shrugs. "You want to deal, let's deal."


End file.
